Writing is a funny old game. An embryo writer starts off full of enthusiasm, heart full of a story burning to be told; yet their skill level is zip. I’m sure I write squillions better than wot I did when I first took up a plume, but improving is like wading through treacle. The steps in learning the craft seem to take ages to learn, then even longer to consistently apply however they only take one’s writing forward a tiny amount.

The size of one’s knowledge vacuum is shrouded in shadow. It’s impossible to know how much is yet to be learned and what remnants of information are wedged in the brain, having been crammed in by an English teacher eons ago.

It’s a romantic notion to think that by continuing to write, things will improve to the point of real (ie non-related) people wanting to read your stuff. Nonetheless becoming a published writer also has to include an amount of luck, timing, persistence, sheer cussedness and enormous dollop of talent. Quantifying aptitude, subjectively or objectively, is impossible.

By iotas, motes, tads, inches and the occasional perch, I progress along the convoluted path of learning my craft. Life has not yet shaken out of me the conviction that I may have a story worth telling. Frustratingly, with no certainty at all of the future, my very long journey may be only a single megalithic yard (82.91cm) from overnight success or could go nowhere. All the optimism and enthusiasm in the world cannot push me to readability if my innate talent is not enough.

Still, I love the whole process; the excitement as a new story bubbles into my head, the drawing of threads together to make it cohesive. I adore the quasi-investigative process of working out where I’m going, forging elements to construct a fluent story. Even redrafting and corrections give me a buzz; something achieved. So, with such uncertainty ahead, what am I going to do? Write on.